“No reason to be scared of other people. We’re the ones who carry the flame, the light.”

Sunday – we were still a city burning, but now on the horizon, as if the time between us were embodied in distance, impulsive steps out into a desert. Persepolis, though his name might be the name of my next god-child, I was never certain if I would wake next to him again. Enchanting, built of admirable social immunities, a strange ruin painted with glyphs that I desperately want to run my fingers over. Even in the bed, under familiar strings of lights that sang starlight like blood-cells, wrapped around a body that felt like evolution’s most satisfying proof, I didn’t know if he would keep me safe in the morning. He did today. I know I want him to again.

33 writers. 5 designers. 6-word science fiction. The old meme is back, what’s yours?

Saturday – a different house, one letter different. I literally vaulted over him to get out of bed when I realized we’d slept through the alarm. Over and out, into the rest of my clothes and up the stairs, without even saying goodbye, leaving only a kiss brushed quickly on his cheek, too quietly to wake him fully. My last glimpse of him, through the closing bedroom door, was one of a selkie trying to hide under blankets. It was only at the bus-stop that I realized I was going to be fine, I wasn’t even close to being late. Tea could have happened, breakfast even. I wondered, belatedly, if I should have woken Mark-with-a-K for his audition and mildly cursed the erratic illusion of clarity that comes from waking in unfamiliar surroundings. Early mornings after late nights, working seven days in a week, it wears – I left my mother’s umbrella behind in my abstracted rush.

more on heart of the world when I am awake

my life looks better when it’s written down

postsecret.blogspot.com - 4672833129

I was given website hosting this week, (still under construction, I’m tackling the learning curve best I can, but it’s a damned wall. Suggestions and coding help welcome).

Last night I threw panties onto a stage where Mark played Frank Zappa with his teeth, rock-star style.

Wednesday, the Celluloid Social Club showed Kryshan’s Zombiewalk film, had me come up and talk about it, gave me a chance to promote like an expensive whore, and my friends won the Bloodshots 48 Hour Horror Film Competition with a Italiana Nunsploitation flick that you can watch here. See: Steampower Films.

Today my work has decided to pay me, (with a slight raise), to attend the Rolling Stones concert next Friday and look pretty.

None of which, by the way, makes up for the fact that they pulled my fireworks show out of the Parade of Lost Souls.

Oh, and for all these lily innocent doe-eyed “what’s this parade thing?” types, the Parade of Lost Souls is possibly the only completely marvelous event that Vancouver actually has. Be there unrestrained and fanciful or I will always cherish the initial misconception I had about you and nothing more.

he’s certainly charming

So once again, (as it tends to), my livejournal is running out of Paid Account. If you want to help out, as I certainly can’t currently afford upkeep, then donate here to keep this journal alive.

The Complete Works of Charles Darwin are now available online for free.

Sometimes I feel like I’m crafting obituaries when I describe people here. “He was a kind man, Mr. Haversham, tall and slightly too commonplace. We loved his newspaper clipping accent, me and Dave, and now he’s gone.” That said, I think I’m going to give a shot to talking about Mark, (leaving out as much description as possible), as locals have been developing a curiosity.

We met in 1999, my mother was somehow part of an African music festival event that he was doing the sound for. We went home together after to an Art House on Fraser St. that he was watching for the out-of-town owners and, after we got rid of Lidd, we stayed up all night talking. (I would be shocked if Reine’s mother was not friends with the artists who lived there, just to give you some idea of what the house was like). I’m not sure why we went back together after, except that maybe things just happen sometimes and occasionally personalities simply click. He says now that I was very shy then and it’s sort of true. I didn’t talk as much as he did, not knowing how to speak with people yet.

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Fast-forward to a few weeks ago, after I’ve moved to Toronto and back, L.A. and back, Montreal and back. After I’ve singularly failed to escape from this place, actually, but have thoroughly lost touch with Mark anyway. I’m at a Timothy Wisdom party, having been invited by an acquaintance on the street, an anonymous e-mail, and Angus Ms. Spelt. Set between a funeral home and an industrial warehouse, I didn’t know the hosts, but I knew the house. People spill out of it when there’s parties, and everything on the main floor, excepting the kitchen, becomes dance floor.

On this dance floor, this most fabulous and exceedingly crowded place, I encounter a woman who stops me to say, “I have the other half of your sewing machine.” It’s an odd statement, but she’s right, she does have my old sewing machine. I’m surprised. We used to trade one back and forth to summers ago. To her left is Mark. We haven’t seen each other since before I moved to Toronto, but we recognize each other instantly. (Amazing if you factor in that he’s not tall anymore because puberty wasn’t finished with me last we saw one another and now I’m an entire four inches taller.) That quirk of timing goes “click” again, and now we’re best of friends once more, spending time too late at night and sleeping over more often than is strictly necessary for a basic social life.

I think we have a date in December, but I’m not sure how things like that work. I’m going to have to ask.

scraps collected from the floor

The polished cement floors and tall white walls of the The Dance Center foyer give an impression of being professionally vacant and irrepressibly busy, all at the same time. I like it. The desk I sit at faces a long glass wall that I watch the street through, its beveled edges act as rainbow prisms on sunny days. I am mostly here in the evening, however, as the dinner-time crowd travel undistractedly past in long black coats and oversize hoop earrings. Sunday nights are traditionally unexciting.

Occasionally a man comes in who looks homeless, long scruffy gray hair, a bright yellow rain jacket with a small hole over one elbow. He collects all the new reading material that’s accumulated over the week, pamphlets, brochures, upcoming events, and sits quietly reading them at the table, one after another, until either he is finished or it is time to close. I don’t mind, it keeps him warm and he seems inoffensive. I only wonder what he does with them after. A favorite idea is that of a small cooking fire flaring in the dark back doorway of a rich downtown hotel.

Jenn’s party last night, I felt like I’d wandered into three years ago. I wanted to be wearing something improbable, a snakeskin dress, a PVC corset, something with unlikely handfuls of feathers, just to put myself off balance, to rid myself of the feeling that I will never escape this place, that I will always return to these same people year after year in these similar places. That I can’t evolve or forget.

Even dropping by Oliver’s birthday party on Saturday after going to see The Prestiege did not feel so alienating. Of course, I’d made sure to arrive as late as possible to ensure that the guest of honour would have been steadily drinking himself into inoffensiveness since five in the evening, and I’m certain it helped. That and Mark dragging himself out of bed at two a.m. to threaten making me dinner after to fix how I might be feeling.

This year’s global ecological debt day, which fell early on October 9th, symbolizes the day of the year when people’s demands exceeded the Earth’s ability to supply resources and absorb the demands placed upon it. This means that it would take the Earth 15 months to regenerate what was consumed already this year.

My ecological footprint, last time I delved into this, turned out to be surprisingly small, (minus that I live in a first world country), so omitting some regrettable things, like not being able to shop organically or fair-trade at two in the morning, I think I’m doing okay. What’s your excuse?